It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like... Plastic

It's done. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be-- a little worse than ripping off a Band-Aid, but not as bad as an assault by a predatory smoke detector. It's our tree-in-a-box and I think about Justin Timberlake every single time I walk past it.






The Beans approve, Hubby's satisfied and Biscuit didn't even realize that it was artificial from three inches away.











I have to admit, it was ridiculously easy to set up once Hubby put the right section in the right place ("Why doesn't this fit? You might have to take it back, Pie. This piece is the wrong size!!!"). Ha ha ha.





That would have been too bad because the odds of me taking any item back to that store and attempting to solve another problem within the confines of that particular retail establishment are, in a single word, nil. In fact, I may have to avoid the store for the remainder of my days here on earth. Maybe even the one-block radius surrounding the store. While giving in to my practical side and going for plastic over pine wasn't too terrible, the actual experience ending in this purchase (well, actually the loading which came after the purchase) will go down in my personal shopping history as one of the worst in my entire life. Sorry to disappoint, but each time I've tried to impart the story my heart starts pounding, my head starts throbbing, my right eye begins twitching and the knot in my back that never really goes away tenses up so severely that I need a time-out and sometimes even a drink. Suffice it to say, sometimes people can make a very, very simple task impossibly difficult and the tree-purchasing experience was one of those times. A word of advice: don't take fifteen-month-old twins by yourself to the hardware store to buy a fake Christmas tree unless you have a decent stash of Valium waiting at home along with someone capable of watching the kids for a couple of days while you recover. Because you will not be able to find an English-speaking cashier at the store whom your kids will not bark at like a couple of excited dogs. And no, Ma'am, "Dunhill" is NOT spelled "n-o-b-l-e". In the end, we got a great deal, the tree looks great, all the kids are happy and that's enough of that.

This is going to be an interesting season. I don't have cards out yet. Hubby vetoed the few I tried to whiz by him because none of the photos include any of us in holiday garb. Quite frankly I don't think it matters but hey, what do I know? I'm just the mom. It's just as well, though. His insistence will very likely yield very cute pictures to paste all over the cards and I will get all the credit. Not a bad deal, right?

Just like everyone else, it seems, we're scaling back on the holiday budget this year. There are several things that I picked up throughout the year because they were just too great to pass up, but we're definitely not going overboard. And it's interesting because even though we suffered through the housing debacle this year, we aren't doing too badly. There's just so much that's different this year from last and the adjustments are huge.

I started to want to feel bad about it-- about scaling back. But then I got to thinking about it and the greatest things we have to remember years past aren't at all about the things we got but rather about what made the holidays that year distinctive: Hubby's first Christmas with the family at Mimzi and DPSM's house, Hubby's, Biscuit's and my first Christmas together in our own place after living with my parents for soooooo long, the New Year's when Biscuit accidentally spit sparkling cider in my face, the New Year's we got to spend with Auntie D and YD... All the stuff we've bought, particularly for Biscuit, is pretty much gone having been outgrown, broken, given away or lost.

So I've decided not to feel badly in the least. Instead I'll be grateful that Hubby has a great job, that we have a warm, safe home and that we'll have family gathered around the table for a Christmas ham that I hopefully won't drop on the floor.

All that and a plastic tree. Ho ho ho!!! I wonder if I can find a plastic partridge?

Faking It

When I was growing up, my parents had a fake Christmas tree. Every single year they brought that tired thing out and set it up in the same spot in the living room and every year it seemed smaller and more miserable. I can barely remember my mom picking me up in front of the tree when it was new with a can of flocking spray in my little hands, and Mimzi's voice in my ear telling me to push the button just a little bit harder. I pushed that button as hard as my teeny-tiny little fingers could, the can trembling in my hands from the effort, and a glob of gooey white mess droobled onto a plastic tree branch and I was never so proud as I was at that moment. It was my first time flocking anything.

Fast forward to four years ago (yeah, that's weird-- moving forward into the past, isn't it?) to Booie's, Biscuit's and my first Christmas together in our own place and our passionately anti-fake-tree conversation. We were all in complete agreement that fake Christmas trees are unAmerican, unGodly, unChristmasy, and overall doubleplus unGood. Happy to have the matter settled, we eventually hauled ourselves to a tree lot, then another and another, and finally in exasperated defeat dropped about a hundred bucks on the least miserable, least forlorn and neglected-looking Douglas Fir we could find.

We were good little Christmas-tree parents, leaving it outside for an hour, shaking off all the needles before bringing it inside, putting a penny in the base, making him all nice and festive for the holiday and watering him twice every day. But apparently all of this was not good enough for him because he turned almost totally brown and dropped all his needles in the week leading up to Christmas and, since he was in the living room at the front of the house, most of those needles were tracked all through the house and I was still finding the suckers when we moved out the following May.

Undeterred the following year, we passionately declared that a few measly old pine needles wouldn't make Scrooges out of us so off we went again for a real tree. This time it was a seven-foot-tall White Fir-- unusual and very Seussy-- that caught our eyes. It sang to us and we brought him home, wrapped him top-to-bottom in lights, all the way up the trunk and all over the branches, and stuck him proudly in our new living room window. Our overexuberant lighting style totally overpowered the tree (seriously, from the street it just looked like seven hundred billion lights roughly arranged into an upside-down cone shape that was probably visible from the planet Pluto) but we loved him nonetheless. He held all his needles and sheltered the presents, even holding a few on his branches and we declared that we'd always have a White Fir for every Christmas yet to come. When it was time to say goodbye, he was kind enough to leave the unexpected gift of sap all over the hardwood floors, which required an incredible amount of time, energy and effort to remove.

The next year, we returned to the same Christmas tree farm with only a mildly tart (and still sticky) taste in the backs of our mouths, willing to give the White Fir another go only to discover that demand for them was so low that they no longer offered them. Bummed out that we'd not enjoy our quirky Seuss-like tree again, we walked around and around, finally settling for a Noble that was too bushy in some places and not bushy enough in others. We brought him home (he almost slid off of Putt-Putt twice and Hubby's never driven as slowly as he did that ride home), did the tap-tap on the porch, which left a disappointing mound of needles in that spot, much to our dismay, gingerly carried it inside (whispering sweet nothings to it all the while) and watched as, within ten days, its branches drooped-- every single one of them like a super-sad, upside-down happyface mouth-- and dropped about eighty percent of its needles which the two busy dogs promptly scattered all over the house-- upstairs, downstairs, under the beds, in the closets, the garage, the back yard and both cars. Still enough needles remained that it passed for a ragamuffin little Christmas tree but the thing was dry as the Hollywood hills in July so we didn't dare plug in the lights or even look at it for too long out of fear that it would spontaneously combust and burn the house down. Obviously, that tree didn't want to share the holiday with us, either.

Then I started feeling very tired. Four days after Christmas we discovered that I was pregnant and my energy level crashed and nausea levels rose accordingly. The tree died an unceremonious death in the living room, still bedecked in lights and ornaments in early February, its branches all stiffly dried in their please-return-us-to-the-earth-from-which-we-sprung posture. And I just didn't care. I finally got Mimzi to come out to the house with me one day while Hubby was in Boston. Mimzi supervised while I, in all my sloppy, clumsy, pregnant glory climbed the stepladder to remove the ornaments and lights, ate a sandwich (and a bowl of soup and a plate of spaghetti), and eventually hauled the thing out to the sideyard where it stayed until Hubby had a fabulous time cutting it up with a Sawz-All and piecing it out in the recyclables can over the span of a couple of months. As far as I'm concerned, it was a fitting end to that bastard of a tree. And again I swept and swept and swept and still found more pine needles, although this time it became harder to see them as my belly grew and grew.

Last year, our first with the Beans, Hubby and I scooted out to the farm, grabbed a tree that didn't piss us off too badly, threw it on the car and were home within an hour. We brought it inside and watered it every now and again when we remembered, made sure none of the ornaments had fallen victim to Katie's mischief (she really does try so hard to be good) and took it down the weekend following New Year's and left it out at the curb for the Boy Scouts with a donation.

And the next day I started thinking about the merits of a fake Christmas tree.

Last year we got away with so much. The Beans weren't even sitting up and didn't have a clue they could get around all by themselves. This year, EVERYTHING goes into their mouths-- and neither one is afraid of using her teeth on every square millimeter of anything she can get her hands on. Our last house was all hardwoods except for the closets and the guest room-- here carpet is the exception and not the norm and I'll know I'm on something I shouldn't quit if I can convince myself that I won't have to vaccuum every single day of my life from now until May if we get a real tree. There are a TON more cracks to gather tree needles (and yes, I am referring to Bean cracks as well as all other bodily orifices) and I can't erase the image of the howling fantods that will ensue when I glance down at a dirty diaper and discover needles there too, of all places.


Like all the changes in our lives that have come aong with the Beans, I'm sure we'll find a way to embrace this one too. No, we don't have a fake plastic, gloopily-flocked tree in our living room yet, but it's just a matter of time. I guess it's a growing-up-into-your-responsibilities thing. And another thing that goes along with that is the realization that the reason for the flocking fake tree I hated so much as a kid was none other than yours truly.

But I still don't have to be happy about it. I refuse. No flocking way.

Little Linus

Parki loves the Binkie. She always has. She is just a Binking kind of Bean. We keep at least five in rotation, like we have today, and when the Beans go down for Happy Nappy or Night-Night, as long as Parki has one in her mouth and one in each fist, then off to sleep she goes. She doesn't Bink all the time-- she just wants to know they're there just in case the Binking mood strikes her. And frequently, she'll spit one out and replace it with the one in her right hand, pick up the one she rejected, spit out the new one, and replace it with the one in her left hand. By morning, all the Binkies usually litter the floor around and under the Beans' cribs and she and Pipsi walk around gathering them to scatter all over the house for me to frantically search for immediately prior to that morning's Happy Nappy. Parki seems to end up with the lion's share because now that the Beans' hands are getting bigger it's easy for her to pop one in her mouth and carry two or three in each hand. There have been times when we've had as many as seven Binkies in the Beans' room at a time. Sometimes one gets left behind in the carseat or stroller and having extra just makes it easier to keep them happy.

Since you're perceptive, you've already said to yourself, "Wait-- five Binkies means that Pipsi only has two. That's not fair!" You're right. We'll momentarily set aside the fact that I don't care that it isn't fair because there's a very good reason Pipsi only usually has two Binkies in her crib. Pipsi doesn't even really need one Binkie. She doesn't need Dolly, she doesn't need Panda, Stick Frog, Fairy Purse, Pink Car or the always-contested, battle-sparking Pink Shoes.

But she must have Soft Blanket. Pippers is a big, big fan of Soft Blanket. Lately she won't go ANYWHERE without a Soft Blanket. She drags one around with her up and down the hall, through the kitchen, into the family room, along on trips Bye-Bye in the Starship Margaret, Bye-Bye in Big Red, and back into my lap for a story. She finds them useful for games of Peek-A-Boo or Where's Pipsi, a game she invented where she pulls Soft Blanket over her head and I say, "Where's Pipsi?" while she takes tiny steps around until she bumps into something and falls down, giggling like a loony tune the whole time. There are a total of eight acceptable candidates for Soft Blanket (we've only bought two-- the rest were all gifts and thank you all SO MUCH!) and right this moment, four of them are in the dryer because Pipsi must now have them in her high chair with her while she enjoys whichever meal's before her. Soft Blanket enjoys these meals too because Soft Blanket's main function is to softly cradle Pipsi's face and head when she plops down on it while softly saying, "Ahhhhhhhh,". Soft Blanket always obliges and Pipsi shows her appreciation by occasionally slobbering the contents of her mouth onto Soft Blanket. When we're all playing together in the Beans' room, Pipsi piles every blanket she can grab on one spot of the floor and faceplants right on top of it, rolling around and wrapping herself in all their Soft Blankety Softness. And sometimes she'll reach for one and I'll hand it to her. She'll look at it and fuss a little more, telling me, "No, not this one, the other one!", and we'll find the other one and she'll push it onto my shoulder and throw herself into my lap. So happy!

Hubby says it's good that we have so many Soft Blankets and Binkies. He's pretty smart like that. He quickly and easily recognizes that Binkies and Blankies are simple things that make the Beans very, very happy and when they're happy, we're happy. We've learned that it's important to see eye-to-eye while raising twins and a middle-schooler; there are three of them and only two of us and they can smell opportunity like sharks can smell blood in the water.

So imagine my surprise last weekend when, as we were enjoying a leisurely stroll downtown and I raced to the window of my favorite consignment shop to scrutinize the handbags in the window, he asked me, "How many purses do you need?"

That's crazy! How many purses do I need?!? That's like asking how many Binkies or Blankies we need!!!! Hubby, you can very quickly and easily determine the answer to that by a brief study of my daughters. The answer is:

One. And that one happens to be whichever one makes me happy at the moment.

She Sticks Her Hand Where?

Little kids are obsessed with touching stuff. All kinds of stuff. They touch it with their little fingers, palms, feet, and mouths, much to their parents' frequent chagrin. Our little Beans are no exception.



As I've said before, Pooki and Pipsi are very different from one another and as they've grown and their personalites are becoming even more clearly defined, I see little Pipsi sharing a lot of similarities with Biscuit's younger self. Like her big brother, Pipsi will pause at the word "no" and retract her hand from whatever she's touching even if the word isn't directed at her. She's a little more cautious about everything and definitely wary of strangers, just like litle Biscuit was. Parki is not.



To Parki, "no" means that whatever has her attention is even more interesting than she first thought and definitely needs her hands on it and she needs to take it away from everyone else and spend some good one-on-one time with it, examining it in fine detail, evaluating its every characteristic, slobbering on it. Recently, she discovered a fascinating North-South-running crack in her backside that lives under her diaper. And she can't get enough of it. The first time she found it I thought it made a cute picture.



"Parki, did you find your bum? That's where the poop lives, Bean. Let's keep hands out of there. That's yucky," I said, tossing toys into the corner of the Beans' room in a Ten-Second-Tidy that the Beans admirably destroyed with the Five-Second-Franticthrowitallaround. In my frazzled state I made the grossest possible error I could have made.



"No, no, Parki, don't put your hands in there." And that was it. I was doomed the second I said it. I looked over at Pipsi, reassuring her that the "no" wasn't meant for her and it was okay to point at the pictures of butterflies with her middle finger and scream, "Beeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzzzz!" and I pretended not to notice Parki, who was looking at me with the brightest, most shiny, gleefully mischievous smile you've ever seen as she shoved her hand down the back of her diaper as far as it would go and turned and ran out the door to the hall.



Sigh.



At that moment, I made a mental note to myself to dress Parki exclusively in snap-bottom tops to nip that fetish in the bud. Then my crazily-hormonal post-pregnancy sleep-deprived brain must have deleted it.



A couple of days later the three of us were again playing in the Beans' room when I thought I noticed a funny smell. I grabbed the nearest Bean (Pipsi) for a smell check (negative) and went out in the hall in search of the probable offender. I found her at the end of the hall in the corner against the closet door with her hand down the back of her pants and that winning smile pasted broadly across her bright, beautiful little face.



Parki had hit paydirt.



Oh, no. I stopped dead in my tracks and paused to make sure my neutral-smile-poker-face was firmly in place. Check. Proceed-- act natural. Don't spook her. Approach slowly. Try a distraction. I bet you wish you had that helpful little voice in your head telling you what to do sometimes!



"Hi Parki! Where's your Binkie?" I asked, looking around on the floor and advancing toward my stinky little Bean.



"Bah? Whassit?" Parki asked back, looking around and pulling her hand out of her pants to make the broad, open-handed gesture the Beans do when asking where something is.



"I don't know," I said and, reaching down, gently grasped a fetid, brown-fingered Beanpaw, squishing down the howling fantods welling up inside and going into crisis-suppression mode.



"Come on, Parki, let's go wash hands!"



"Yaaah!" Parki squealed in agreement.



The Beans LOVE washing hands. They love water in any form, to be truthful, but today's story isn't about that as you well know.



With the offending hand firmly under control we proceeded to the sink, washed off the foul matter, returned to change her diaper and resumed playtime. I didn't bother changing Parki into a onesie because after all, she'd already enjoyed a massive emptying of her bowels and why make more laundry and therefore more work for myself? Mission successful: crisis averted. Congratulations Secret Agent Mom.



I was quite please with myself. Not as pleased as Parki was with her discovery of PantsTreasure, but still pleased. A little too pleased. Pleased to the point of complacency. Pleased to the point of hubristic. And that was bad-- very, very bad.



I think anytime people live together and become accustomed to each others' habits, it's easy to assume that these people will always maintain the same habits and patterns. It's easy to forget how unpredictable people can be. Even little people and their little bowels, which can hold more than one might think.



That evening we were eating dinner. Hubby, Biscuit and I were on the family room sofa and the Beans were happily occupying themselves and each other in the Little PlayZone, occasionally grazing off our plates and returning to play. Suddenly the MomAlarm bells went off because Parki was standing over in the corner, her hand down the back of her pants. This in and of itself wouldn't have been a big deal, but she had that little devilish grin on her face again.



And she was staring right at me.



"Parki? Did you poop your pants?" I asked, quickly clattering my dinner plate on the coffee table.

Out popped her hand and, you guessed it-- it was covered in poop. Again.

"Yeeeee!" Parki squealed, looking over at Pipsi with a gleam in her eye. In the instant between that moment and my arrival at her corner to swoop her up and prevent the havoc she was undoubtedly ready to wreak on her sister, a scene of Parki grabbing a handful of Pipsi's hair in her little brown fist flashed before my eyes. I imagined the ensuing moments: Hubby and Biscuit, vomiting all over the sofa, table, and family-room carpet, splashing some onto the Beans' toys for good measure and me, standing in the midst of all that pooke (yes, it's a new kind of matter created by the fusion of poop and puke), my arms full of screaming, poop-coated Beans, not knowing where to begin the cleanup.

Again, we were lucky and escaped without much of an incident. We cleaned up in the kitchen and eventually returned to our previous pursuits, although my appetite was greatly diminished after exposure to the contents of Parki's diaper (where does it all come from???). For the past several days, Parki has worn either full body jumpers or bottom-snap shirts and I have to watch both Beans at all times.

But what this has got me thinking about is a diaperless life for the Beans. We're getting to that point already! If she knows there's something in there then that's a great indication that she's getting ready to, gulp, POTTY TRAIN!

My friends, I think the fun may have just begun. If you don't hear from me for a while please just assume that I'm suffocating under a pile of pooke somewhere.

Everything To Be Thankful For

First, I apologize for the title. It looks like a train wreck with the infinitive stuck in the middle and the preposition razzing me at the end, but when said aloud it's far less offensive, as in: "I feel like we have everything to be thankful for". Or something like that.

I just read a news article about a woman in Denver, CO who spent last Thanksgiving unemployed in a motel room with her longtime partner because they'd just been evicted from their home. On Thanksgiving Day, the weight from the snow caved in part of the wall and they spent the day wet and miserable.

This year, both she and her man have new jobs and are enjoying a new townhouse. Rather than simply baste in her own success, the woman's gratitude moved her to reach out to others as down on their luck as she'd found herself last year and she posted an ad on Craigslist inviting them to share Thanksgiving with her. She and her partner ended up hosting Thanksgiving dinner for 32 complete strangers because once the responses arrived, there was no way she could turn any of them away.

What an awesome lady! It was such a beautiful story that it got me thinking about what all we have to be thankful for (see? it's a good, working phrase!). Here are a few things I came up with...

The color pink

Beans who can turn anything into a toy and their big brother Biscuit, who can capture moments like these while his mom changes a diaper.

Soft Blankets, Binkies and Buddies for when the Beans are sleepy.

Used cars (with doors, but hey, whatever floats her boat, right?).

An appreciation for "Dukes of Hazzard Style".

Bean-sized wild-animal prints and an abundance of baby wipes.

WINNING THE BIG GAME!!!!!!

Matching Thanksgiving dresses, Red Circus Box and Mimzi hugs.

Papa (DPSM) hugs and all of his.... original music ;)

Great-Grandma singing to Pipsi.

Turkey with gravy and Cheerios.

Great friends--

Who have great kids.

And completely tear-free visits to Santa.

Now that all the kids are healthy again, most of the laundry is caught up and nothing in the fridge smells like roadkill left in the Arkansas sun for too long (just give it a week, folks) I can take a moment to think about how much has happened since last Thanksgiving. As far as material possessions go, I don't think we have a greater number of things in our lives-- in fact it's rather the opposite. Last year we were still in the other house in another town, the Beans were still brand-new and we really didn't know what was going to happen or where we would be for Thanksgiving this year. And now I drive a van, am a slave to Happy Nappy schedules and share 1500 child-proofed square feet with four other people and a spazzy Border Collie.

But I can declare today without any equivocation whatsoever that I am so very thankful for each and every little bit of this life. Is it what I thought I saw when I looked into my five-year crystal ball in 2003 when Hubby, Biscuit and I spent out first Thanksgiving together? Not exactly. We never, ever anticipated twins. And I always thought that by the time Biscuit was the age he is now that my career would be charging full steam ahead, not laid aside for other things-- but those other things turned out to be the Beans and I wouldn't trade the fun, happy time I get to spend with them and Biscuit and Hubby for anything at all.

We don't have a great big impressive house. We don't have glamorous cars and I'll probably never get over my obsessive cheapness enough to spring for a tummy tuck. We don't take exotic vacations and Hubby and I may never take a real honeymoon. But even though we don't have all the requisite trappings of success, I still think that the sum of what we do have is everything to be thankful for (see? it totally works!).

Bugs-- Again.

The Beans are beginning to share. They're taking baby steps in this department but we'll count any little event slightly resembling sharing as a full-fledged step in the right direction. It's been, shall we say, an ordeal to have made it this far and there were moments when I doubted our arrival, but it happened, and it continues to improve. Sure there are still more moments when they hit each other, pull each other's hair and bite each other than there are moments of sublime sibling satisfaction but still, the little blissful moments I witness give me the hope that keeps me afloat on the black sea of daily discontent.

There have been three separate occasions over as many weeks when I've peeked in on quiet Beans (assuming that the absence of screaming means they're up to mischief) to find Parki reading to Pipsi. Something you have to know: Pipsi LOVES having someone read to her. She runs over to whomever is sitting or standing nearby, book and blankie clutched in her slobbery little paws, throwing herself at the person who has come to read to her. People are Kindles to Pipsi, living, breathing Kindles who will wrap her in a Blankie and read the same books over and over and over because she's too darn cute to turn down. Occasionally she's a little insistent and impatient. If you take too long to begin the book or take too long to turn the page, she will grab the book and whack you in the face / head / shoulder / chest with it. She doesn't mean to hurt-- she just wants to get on with the business at hand. And that business could take hours if we let it.

During the moments when I have to take care of other stuff around the house and the Beans are left to their own devices I've traditionally had about ten minutes to take care of something before the Beans entered Meltdown Mode. When that bit of time passes and I don't hear screaming, I feel something amiss. That's when I peek into their room or down the hall and there sit my little Beans together, Parki flipping the pages of a board book and reading, "Ngyahbluorsh, bah bah dodoshgyuryeeee" and pointing with her little finger at the pictures and words, and Pipsi following along, fully engaged in the story her sister is patiently reading to her.

It's the cutest thing ever. It's cuter than candy-covered ponies. It's cuter than the featured exhibit at the Museum of Cuteness. It's cuter than a basket of pink puppies.

And by the time I return with the camera the moment is over.

An experience we aren't through with yet, though, is the Beans' second cold. I know, I should be ashamed of myself for even thinking about complaining when the babies have only been sick one other time in their almost fifteen months here on Earth, but this is just not fun. On the upside, Mommy's had the chance to cuddle all night long with one Bean or the other. The downside of it is that I spend most of the night sitting up and covered in ropy green nasal discharge. But that's okay.

Even though it's a bummer to have all three kids sick at once I at least have the glimmer of hope that they're all capable of sharing. Even if at first it's only germs.

Puke Pies

There's a lovely garden in the back yard that blooms in the Spring with Calla lilies, roses and daffodils, a cherry tree and two orange trees whose blossoms are pleasing not only to the eye but also to the ol' sniffer. Walking out to Hubby's office is a fragrant treat during those early days of Spring (until I arrive and step inside to discover things... not as fresh if you get what I mean).

Anyway, as is the case with any garden all those pretty flowers have to grow in something (dirt) and when it rains petals fall from everywhere and mix with the rain and dirt and make super-gross mudpaste. Mud always reminds me of the photo my mom has tucked away somewhere of my brother and me making mud pies at the bottom of the rusty slide that used to live in the back yard at their house. But a few days ago something new happened that reminds me of mud pies-- or rather a tweaking of the traditional mud pies to suit the needs of a new generation.

With all the dirt and mud and concrete in the back yard and with the Beans still unsteady on their little feet I generally don't bring them outside together at the same time by myself so most of their days are spent indoors. Not only do I worry they'll fall on an upended brick or other bit of hazardous something, there's also the issue of the time required to remove mud stains from little pants and socks and shoes. At this point I really don't like the idea of making more work for myself but of course I do feel badly becasue sometimes I feel like I'm denying them a big childhood joy but then I remember that they just learned how to walk and Pipsi hates grass anyhow. But all that nonsense aside, never fear! They don't want for space to play and they're incredibly creative. For example, I was in the kitchen doing dishes (yay for me!) the other day and the Beans were in their bedroom and the hallway playing in their own kitchen. We keep the door to their room open and they have the run of that and the hallway and they prefer it to being stuck in the Playground because at least they can see the real kitchen from the hall and can come over and say hi or complain or throw stuff over onto the other side and scream until someone (Mommy) comes over and gets it for them and by the way, wouldn't I mind picking them up while I'm at it and reading them a story please?

But as usual I digress. Finished with the dishes, I turned off the water and heard... nothing. I waited a second then heard a wet "slap, slap, slap" and Pipsi giggling. Then quick little footsteps and Parki appeared at the gate. And another wet "slap, slap, slap" followed by giggles from the hallway. Pipsi was up to something which had her very pleased with herself, and Parki wanted nothing to do with it. This was not going to be good. I quickly dried my hands and trotted over to the gate to see what was going on.

"What are you doing Pippers?"

Pipsi looked up at me, beaming with delight.

"Ngyuh! Ngyuh! Ngyuh!" Pipsi shouted, and she turned her blue gaze back down to the floor in front of her. As I stepped over the gate I took in with big, round eyes, the sight of my little blonde-haired beauty sitting on the laminate-floored hallway raising her hands high over her head and bringing them down fast and hard with a loud goopy splat right into a puddle of grossness that was unmistakably puke. She proceeded to gleefully smear it all over the floor before her like it was a big fingerpainting masterpiece, then she rose back into a sitting position, examining her hands with a big, open-mouthed-tongue-lolling smile and, looking back up at me, wiped those slick, slippery, squicky hands all over her shirt and pants.

Awesome. Puke Pies!

You know how mystifying it feels to spill a small glass of whatever onto the counter and even though it was only an ounce or two it just goes everywhere? It sloshes off the counter and drips down the cabinets and puddles on the floor where, if someone (Hubby, Biscuit) isn't paying attention he steps in it and tracks it all over the kitchen before he realizes you're talking to him and he has it on his shoe and he needs to stop for a second and wipe it off because it was just a little liquid in a glass that's now suddenly all over the kitchen?!?!? Well, just in case you didn't know, Beanpuke works that way too.

I no longer worry that they're missing out not getting to go outside and mess around out there because they get to experience pretty much everything in here that they'd get out there-- all the same toys, the animals (Katie), the bugs, and the mud pies without the melanoma risk. By next Spring they'll have outgrown the "early walking" stage and will be fully able to enjoy the outdoors with a significantly lower risk of Howling Fantods from Mommy. Until then they'll obviously be happy making do with substitutions. Splat splat splat!

Let's Pretend

Let's pretend, just you and me, that it hasn't really been this long between posts, 'K?

Halloween and Biscuit's birthday have passed by in a flash and along with the passage of those two events, the space-time continuum in which I and my family exist has sped beyond warp speed just like it does every year. And just as in years past, time this year passes faster than it did last.

Sigh.

What to say about Halloween? We went to a friend's party, bringing along Indiana Jones who was adored all evening by Raggedy Ann,

a ladybug who has yet to meet a stranger

and a butterfly who was content on Daddy's hip for most of the night.

The anniversary marking the beginning of Biscuit's fourteenth year alive on Earth was quite the rite of gas passage. He had a friend over for birthday dinner consisting not of pizza as one would expect but rather of braised Moroccan- spiced rack of lamb avec tous les accoutrements. Yes, I thought it showed a hopeful sign of sophistication too. Biscuit says this is his favorite thing in the universe to eat and I was happy to oblige. About halfway through dinner someone lost control of his sphincter muscles and after that all gas hell broke loose at the table between Biscuit, his Buddy and Hubby. I've never been so happy to take the last bite of that delicious dish as I was that evening. Furthermore, I was repeatedly and colorfully reminded that guys always find farts funny no matter how many birthdays they've had.

Biscuit says, "Thanks, Gran!"

I've spent much more time in the garage over the past several weeks as a result of all the bright, beautiful light that's out there now. Thank you Hubby. But now I see how dirtyfilthygross it is out there. On the bright side (I'm sorry! I can't help it!!!) at least I can see what's been incubating out there for the past few months and I'm not sitting inside in the dark (groan) helplessly worrying about it.

On to the messes inside now...

Do you want to know the worst term I've heard this year? The phrase that catapulted me so quickly toward the Howling Fantods Zone that I actually shot past it straight onto the Isle of Denial? Here's how the phone conversation went:

"I only saw one and that was a day ago and I haven't seen any since so I don't really know if we have a problem or not."

"Yeah, you have an infestation. If you see one you have pro'ly a million eggs."

Oh.

MY!

GOD!!!!!!

Infestation?!?!?!?!?!

One little flea completely upended my whole entire house for the better part of a week. Not sharing John Donne's affinity for the petite parasites I couldn't sleep for fear that every single one of those million eggs would all hatch simultaneously while I slept, covering my kids in their slumber and eating them alive, leaving me to find nothing but bones, saturated diapers and a bit of bodily flotsam and jetsam in the morning.

The benefit is that the house is now CLEAN. Cleaner even than it was when we moved in. As clean as it would be if we were moving out and then we'd take a look around and say, "Man, why don't we keep it this clean all the time?" I'll tell you why. Because it's a gigantic pain in my ass. That's why.

Katie got a bath and a visit to the vet who said that she saw no signs of bugs on our beloved baby. She was scratching all the time and we were applying Frontline so we were at a loss as to where the flea came from until the following weekend.

Hubby and I were on the couch enjoying the last few bites of brunch since the Beans had gone down a little early for Happy Nappy (no, not lucky us-- they also woke up early but that's another post entitled "The Early Bean Gets The Binkie And Smacks Her Twin In The Head With It Because She's Very Very Cranky"). We thought we were so awesome! The house was clean, the kids were napping, we were actually eating a hot meal together in our jammies-- and then one of looked out the window into the screened-in patio adjacent to the family room. I think it was me but I can't be sure because, again, I was suddenly watching the Howling Fantods Zone fly past beneath me on my way back to the Isle of Denial and thinking that I've spent WAY TOO MUCH TIME THERE lately.

It was a rat. Not a mouse. Not a cute little pink-and-white rat like the one that was Mrs. Lanto's sixth-grade class pet named Mozart who used to poop in my desk until I figured out that I should put him in my friends' desks and let him poop on their papers / pencils / fancy erasers. Nope. We're talking about a fat, nasty, mottled-brown, disgusting, scrounging, honest-to-god-quick-grab-a-broom-and-pound-the-hell-out-of-it rat.

So Hubby, fearles defender that he is, put on his Braveheart and his shoes, grabbed the broom and ventured out to the patio. My job was to keep an eye on it. I watched it, hands clamped over my ears, fingers curling up in my hair, humming tunelessly (because the stock soundtrack on the way to the Howling Fantods Zone isn't nearly as pleasing as you might think). I pulled my eyes from the object sentenced to imminent destruction by broom to take one last look at Hubby should he return on rather than with his shield and when I glanced back, the rat had disappeared.

Poof! Gone! Just like that.

Hubby rooted around in the patio for a couple of minutes, cautiously yet viciously poking the broom handle here and there, but the fat-bellied beast was nowhere to be found. And it's funny. Hubby asked me a couple of days into my frenzied cleaning-and-disinfecting spree whether I was sure that I'd seen a flea. Aside from the fact that that was the absolute wrongest question in the world that he could have uttered at that moment (better ones immediately sprung to mind right at that second like, "How can I help you?" or "Do you need a hand with that?" or "Why don't you let me move that big heavy object for you?" or "How about if I take over this massive project for an hour so you can shower and eat because it would be so inconsiderate of me to just sit here and watch tv and let the kids cry while you stink and starve?" or "Is this something we can do together since I want out home to be as clean as you do?"), one thing I hope Hubby ALWAYS knows and trusts about me is that I never, ever cry wolf. I will concede the point that I am far more likely to assume and prepare for the worst-case scenario as far as the kids' health and safety is concerned than I am to just hang onto my pants and hope for the best, but these were FLEAS we were talking about-- bugs that wanted to suck our babies' blood in the dead of night and then go make more fleas to suck more blood. Third-world insects. And the guy on the phone had said "INFESTATION!"

So yes, I was sure it was a flea. Have I seen more? No. Do I regret moving furniture, washing clothes and linens nonstop, vaccuuming, scouring, disinfecting, and sanitizing for the better part of a week? No! Would I have rather been doing other things? Duh, YES! Do I lament the fact that I was the only adult in the house doing so? Of course, but I was also the only one to see the flea on Pipsi's face and (fortunately) the only one who felt the little itchy pinch of its bite. And now, I am also the one with peace of mind that I've done EVERYTHING POSSIBLE to rid the house of the vile bugs and I know that if they return it isn't because of anything I did or didn't do.

Am I sure I saw a flea? YES! And there's the culprit right there! Or at least, there he was. I don't know what happened to him (the rat, not Hubby). But I've called the exterminators again to come on out and get this guy (again the rat, not Hubby-- but it isn't yet noon).

In the meantime, I've seriously contemplated pretending that the entire thing never happened. But forgetting about that would mean that I'd forget all the issues we were facing while still managing to throw Biscuit a super-fun birthday party and enjoying a fun Halloween with all the kids. So I won't. When necessary I'll just scoot on back to the Isle of Denial, pour a couple of Pina Coladas and prepare a couple of chairs for the next time one of us sees something in the house that doesn't belong.

When A Righty Writes A Left-Handed Apology...

Not long ago I read an article about why men cheat on their wives. I wasn't doing any research or anything but there are some sleepless nights when I think I get pretty close to the end of the Internet and the pickings get kinda slim. Anyway, one of the reasons provided by one of the interviewees (I think the name the author provided to protect the interviewee's identity was "Jeff") was that he felt like he could never win in any situation with his wife. Hmmmm, I remember thinking. That sounds kind of familiar...

Last post aside, Hubby's pretty terrific. Well, taking away the last post and the fact that I still can't print ANYTHING from my computer EVER. Someone could have a gun to my head and say, "Print me that page or it's your life," and I'd have to reply, "Can we please step out to Hubby's office right after I save this as a Word document and email it to myself so I can access it from his desk? It'll be just a moment," KABLAM! Too late-- I'm dead.

Actually-- wait, the last post, no printer and all the dead-slash-flickering lightbulbs in the house and garage aside. Oh, and the shoes that are still everywhere. See? See how easy it is? There are all these little things I live in each and every single day while he's at work that just nudge and prod at me all the time and suddenly my world (and therefore everyone else's) is all about the things that irk me.


But the deal is this: I don't want that life and I don't want to be that person because that shoe (just like all the others in the house) could just as easily be on the other foot-- and it probably is.

For example, this morning Biscuit totally overslept. All week he's been getting up and ready and making me look REALLY bad rolling out of bed, throwing on jeans and a sweatshirt and driving him to school. I blundered blearily into his room this morning at T-minus eleven minutes to blast-off and we got him to school just as the bell was ringing and I badgered him all the way to the parking lot. He flopped out of the Starship Margaret with a "Sorry Mom, hope you have a good day," and off he went and I felt absolutely terrible. I'd just spent a solid eight minutes telling this kid that he needed to figure out how to better manage his time in the mornings, that eleven minutes means eleven minutes, not eighteen minutes and that when there are only eleven minutes we do not spent three of them on the edge of the bed deciding to wake up.

On the way home I realized that some stuff doesn't matter nearly as much as I let it. Yes, Biscuit needs to get to school on time, but harping on him to do things more this way and less that way is really no help at all and it only puts me in a foul mood which I then pass on to the rest of the house.

So I shut up.

And I chilled out.

And do you hear that?

It's the sound of the world still spinning. Nothing fell apart today because I didn't worry about it enough. Biscuit and I stopped at the park on the way home from school today and let the Beans run around for a while. They even put leaves in their mouths. Neither one choked and died and although it's only been eight hours since said leaves touched their sweet little mouths, aside from some nasty teething pain they don't seem to have contracted anything fatal.

In fact, all my kids seemed to have fun today.

But the biggest surprise happened tonight as Hubby and I were prepping the Beans for night-night. Having had their flu shots yesterday and only one Happy Nappy today (more on that later) and the extra playtime at the park, they were in Supreme Meltdown beginning at about 5:45-- writhing, screaming, kicking, pulling hair, attempting to remove nostrils, tear off cheeks and exsanguinate anyone within arms' reach. I literally had to stay in their room with them to keep them apart. But that was what we had to work with today, so no big deal!

"Thanks for keeping your cool today. It was really nice when everything got crazy that you just stayed calm." That's what Hubby had to say about things.

Ordinarily I enjoy receiving compliments but this one was a little tart 'n tangy. I know I've not been nearly as cool as I used to be and I haven't stopped to consider how much Hubby might miss that. I know I do, so he probably does too. That's not to say that I think Hubby's going to run out and find someone else who is more awesome than I (because we all know that's just plain impossible) but our little exchange brought into sharp focus how daily stresses-- the ones we're too busy to notice because our partner is just not doing enough and we have to work that much harder to pick up the slack which in turn creates a few more of those daily stresses-- become the focus of the relationship and how is that ever going to be anything good?

Hubby would say, "Look, I'm doing you a favor. All the things you're harping on and on about-- the printer, the lightbulbs, the shoes? It's all for you. You worry about the dude holding the gun to your head to get you to print something but I've already got that all taken care of. He puts the gun to your head and then you run. He can't see you well enough to hit you because the lighting's too dim. He can chase after you but he'll trip over the shoes and you can escape. See? All that and you didn't even have to print anything for him, which had you sat there and just done what he said he probably would have killed you anyway. I'm such a great guy! I'm saving your life every day!!!" And then I would laugh and everything would be okay. But life would have been much more enjoyable without all the dizzying dips and dives of the Hormonal Post-Partum Roller Coaster and all the whirlwindy mood swings that oddly magnify myriad stupid little nothings.

Because maybe what drives couples apart, especially when they toss so many kids into the mix, isn't the feeling that neither one can ever win but even just the sentiment that they are on opposing sides against each other. The last time I checked Hubby and I were supposed to be a team whose objective was to dominate the younger team which has us rather outnumbered and it was a feat accomplished much more easily today when one of us wasn't waiting for the other to screw up or freak out.

I'm looking forward to fewer bite marks. Yes, we still have a while to go before we're all the way through with that phase but at least now I won't get blindsided by a Bloodthirsty Bean while looking over my shoulder to shake my head at what Hubby's doing or not doing because winning an argument simply isn't worth our happiness.

Besides, if I did look the other way I'd probably just trip over his goddam shoes ;)

Cry For Help

One of the biggest obstacles to overcome as a stay-at-home / work-part-time-from-home / blog-whenever-possible mom is the overwhelming housework.

Guess what? I've been fighting the same migrating mess for an entire week now. Actually, it's probably been longer than that but if I were able to recall further back than a week I'd be dead because the whole miserable depressing picture would be too much to bear. And thinking about it would take too long when I have other things to do-- like clean.

I am asking nicely and for the last time for the two other fully-ambulatory, fully-articulate members of the household to please put their dirty dishes in the deeshwasherator, put clothing and shoes someplace other than the floorspace in which they're standing when they remove them, and wipe up stuff when it spills. Please STOP assuming that just because there's already crap on the counter / floor / sink that it's okay for you to add to the mess and assume that the maid will get it. The maid is about to shank you.

See, in our house, messes are like a day at the beach. Going there seems like such a great idea-- as in, "Hey, I'm going to go clean up that mess (pile of laundry that I need to fold / sinkful of dirty dishes to wash / piles of Craps on the dining room table) so I don't have to worry about it anymore. I don't really want to do it, but I don't want the mess either." But then you get there and the sand burns your feet, somebody next to you is smoking the smelliest cigar ever, the water is freezing and it totally beats you up, and you arrive home with sand in your car, hair, and all of your cracks.

But I'm fearless (and a little reckless and stupid) so off I go. On the way, something else catches my eye-- a dirty baseboard, perhaps. That means I need to clean the floor, too. Well, I should dust before I do the floors but before I do that, I have to get to the laundry. Well, if I'm going to do the laundry then I might as well wait to fold this pile because then I can knock it all out at once when the next load comes out of the dryer, right? So start a load of laundry and get to the dishes but make sure the Beans are going down for a nap and not just faking me out because they pooped in their pants and don't want me to notice. While I sniff around their door and wait for them to fall asleep, I'll do something quiet, like clear off the table. But wait, I can't do that because that involves walking up and down the hall to put away stuff-- so here's what I'll do: I'll organize all the Craps (which I should just throw away because that's their eventual fate anyway) into piles for each person to put away himself because those Craps belong to him, not me.

OK, so while organizing the Craps the Beans finally fall asleep. I can then start on the dishes and while doing the dishes, the bell on the dryer dings. Well, I have to get that done so I can turn over the laundry and start another load, so bring in the clothes from the dryer and note with dismay how insurmountably large the piles on the sofa and the recliner have grown and return to the dishes so we have clean stuff to eat our meals today. I look out the window and, surprisingly, notice there's still no line of people eagerly waiting to take on my job. Do I hear a Bean? Dry my hands off, run in and return a Binkie to a Beanmaw and return to the kitchen.

Did I hear my phone ringing? Oh yes, it's a work issue requiring immediate attention. Place a phone call and leave a message, then return to the dishes. Wash wash wash. Was that the phone again? Yes. I missed the return call. Call back and speak with the person. Resolve the issue and run over to the computer and compose and email notifying all parties of the situation's resolution. Yay! What's this? Oh, a Facebook message. Wow! Lots of other messages!

Reply to all that require attention and return to the dishes. Start the deeshwasherator. Start on the mountain of clothes. The dryer dings again. Turn over the laundry and the Beans start calling for me. Walk back to their room and note on the way that the Craps are still on the dining room table, the dishes that didn't fit into the deeshwasherator are still in the sink, and the pile of clothes all over the place has merely grown and I didn't even have time to consider the floors. By the end of the day, Hubby and Biscuit have dropped more Craps on the table, more dishes in the sink and shed their clothes into new piles on the floors.

I don't know the solution. I've considered forsaking my blog and my Pilates class and afternoon walks to pick up Biscuit from school but if I were in this situation and had no physical or creative outlet I'd find myself not only living in squalor but also fat, miserable and psychotic and considering how close I feel to all of that right now (because I seriously have not washed my hair since Friday) those things cannot give. It's going to have to be something else.

Seriously guys, I'm gonna shank you. And sadly, the knife is probably going to be dirty.

A Beans' Rite of Passage

Sometimes while gazing rapturously upon my Beans (generally this only happens when they're sleeping) all I can see is Hubby. Although they look hardly anything alike I see so much of him in them that sometimes, I admit, I feel a little diminished-- as though my genetic contribution didn't really show up in the end results. Occasionally though, one or the other will do something that smacks of Mommy, like Parki tickling herself (guilty) or Pipsi shoving a huge handful of something into her mouth (guilty again) and I'll feel a bubbly happiness in my heart at the unexpected bond I feel with that Bean. On Wednesday it felt so good I almost cried.


The Beans are finally walking around consistently well enough for them to wear real shoes. Being both a preparedness freak and a tightwad, I've already bought several barely-worn pairs from a couple other twin moms, however, I realized when I *tried* to put them on the Beans' feet last week that my plan was not going to work out as I'd hoped. In fact, it wasn't going to work out at all.


A quick count reveals no fewer than eight pairs of ridiculously cute, fashionable, girly shoes in our house between sizes 5 and 6 1/2, most of them either matching or coordinating (with another pair, not between themselves of course). Now that it's time for the Beans to wear them, neither one can wear any of them. Sigh. I was so disappointed that all my preparation was for naught. "They're twins," I had thought. "How much difference could there be between their feet sizes?" I had reasoned while buying all those lovely shoes that will now languish in the closet. But I'm also an optimist by nature and never, ever have I been a woman disappointed at the prospect of the opportunity that now presented itself:


SHOE SHOPPING!!!!


From the moment we discovered the hint of ladybits in the ultrasound (well, a little while after that actually, because discovering their genders made the entire "twins" thing suddenly terrifyingly real but that's another post entitled, "Oh My God, This Is Really Happening!") I had been eagerly anticipating the arrival of shoe-shopping companions. Shoe shopping is fun no matter who's getting new shoes. I like shoe shopping for Biscuit, and I've done it for pretty much everyone in my life, even DPSM and Uncle Mac. I'll even shoe shop for nobody at all because just the smell of new shoes is beautiful. But shoe shopping for little girls with all the cute, sparkly, shiny, pinkness and all the lights and glitter and happy butterflies and flowers that adorn the sweet little articles that will encase four of the cutest, softest, squooshiest little feet on the planet? I finally realized that this was why I'd spent so many countless hours of my adult life honing my super shopping skills to the finest possible point! That's the reason why when we arrived home from the "They're girls!" ultrasound that Hubby plopped his wallet on the counter next to me, mumbled, "I give up," and shuffled out to his office in the garage, shoulders slumped in defeat. I told you, he's a smart guy.


Anyhoo, as you know we have a Sasquatch and a ballerina as far as feet go. After feeling absolutely terrible about trying to stuff Pipsi's feet into anything besides Robeez (imagine trying to squeeze a kielbasa into a Coke bottle-- not a pretty thought, is it?) and searching fruitlessly online (do I buy four in different sizes and return three? or all of them if they don't fit? what do I do???) I decided this was one item to purchase at a real honest-to-goodness store, consult with a professional and, if necessary, pay full price.


So that's what Mimzi and I did yesterday. We loaded the Beans, Big Red and all their travel paraphernalia into the Starship Margaret and headed off to World of Shoes. We arrived and the Beans squealed in delight at the acres of shoes within their tight-fisted grasps while I felt that bonding feeling bubbling up inside of me. An employee asked if she could help us and I claimed her as our own for the duration of our stay. We did Pipsi first because she was squirmier and because Parki usually ends up going first.


"I think she's going to need something wide," I commented, disentangling her and Stick Fish from the stroller's straps and holding her, legs dangling, thrashing and kicking, above the obligatory professional shoe-store foot-measuring-fortune-telling device. Pipsi plopped one big beefy foot on it and stomped on it a couple of times for good measure (pun intended-- sorry, I can't help it!) before we were able to get her to shift her weight onto that one foot for an accurate assessment.


"Wow, definitely a Wide," Nice Salesgirl commented. "How old is she? They? Are they twins?"


"Yep, almost fourteen months. And their feet are completely different," I responded, feeling bad for my pretty little Pipsi. No woman at any point in her life needs to have a "Wide" label applied to any part of her body. Ever.


"Okay, well she's right at a five-and-a-half, so let's try a six, and like I said definitely a Wide," declared Nice Salesgirl, oblivious to my wince.


Now, it just so happens that this shoe store (which, coincidentally has been the same exact store in the same exact place since probably before I was the Beans' age because I can remember my parents taking me there many, many times for shoes growing up) came highly recommended by several moms in the MoMs club-- fellow moms of wide-footed whippersnappers. It must be the case that all parents of wide-footed kids shop here because in all the styles we considered (the ones with soles flexible enough for the Beans to actually walk rather than plod stiff-footed), there was only one pair of shoes that fit our little Pippers, but that was okay. One was all we needed.


Nice Salesgirl got the little pink-and-white Nikes on Pipsi's great big feet, suffering blows to her fingers, wrists and forearms without batting an eye, tied the laces and Pipsi was off to the races, stumbling at first, but then finding her rhythm, taking off and dragging Mimzi along behind her by the finger, giggling as she went. Pipsi was pleased.


Then came Parki's turn. After writhing around in Big Red and voicing her displeasure at being held captive against her will while Pipsi got to run around the Shoe Playground, we set Parki loose and she ran up to a little boy nearby. She stood there in her little white socks, eyeing his toy. He saw her encroaching and picked up his toy, clutching it to his chest and saying, "Nooooo."

Parki was undeterred.


"Hiyeeeee," she said, the last part coming out sounding a little like a growl.


"Nooooo," again said her intended victim.


"Sorry, she's very outgoing. I think she wants his number," I said to the cute little boy's mother and (I assume) grandmother. They didn't seem amused. Parki and I returned to the very important, future-telling foot-measuring device and got the news.


"Oh, my gosh, they are completely different! She's just at a four, so we should find her a four-and-a-half, and definitely not a Wide," determined Nice Salesgirl. Four-and-a-half. So be it. Nice Salesgirl has spoken.


Of course there were no four-and-a-half-sized sneakers anywhere to be found. We tried fours: too small. We tried fives: too big. Pipsi occasionally dragged Mimzi over to our aisle, guffawing for a couple of seconds at her own cleverness before gallavanting off in her magical big-Bean shoes to explore the rubber-boot aisle, Mimzi in tow. Parki kept working on wriggling out of my grasp to go flirt with her new boyfriend, who was trying to climb into the Beans' stroller while his mom and grandma were looking the other way. Nice Salesgirl looked all over the store and finally reported back to us that the stock guy "doesn't even write for four-and-a-half".


"What does that mean?" I had to ask for clarification because I don't speak Shoestore (but considering the amount of time I've spent in shoe stores that is a little surprising).


"He doesn't even order them," she explained. Oh. Okay. Crap. Now what? This was not what we'd anticipated! It was supposed to be easy little feet and difficult big feet, not the other way around!


We bought Pipsi's shoes, not even bothering to try removing them from her feet, and will definitely shop there again anytime she needs more and we will for Parki too once her feet are a little bigger. I found her some tiny walkers on Amazon that'll arrive next week. Since we're planning their first visit to the pumpkin patch on Saturday, she can get by with some little boots that we were saving in the closet for her. The rest of the Beans' beautiful shoes will just be toys now until Parki grows into them so when we went home, guess what we played with?



Pipsi in her new Nikes


Parki in her Ecco boots, practicing for walking the pumpkin patch.

And if you're worried that Parki will have a hard time in boots that are a half-size large for her, you can see here that it isn't going to be a big deal.


I think the only thing we have to worry about now is keeping up with them. At least if we lose Pipsi we can just follow the biggest footprints we can find. Parki will probably be found smack in the middle of a bunch of cute boys.

But they will both certainly be well-shod Beans-- a trait they definitely inherited from their mom.

Again with The Magic Number 8

Each Bean has eight new teeth. All sixteen have either broken all the way through or will within the next day or so. As you can imagine, our weekend was absolutely miserable.

After deleting three different drafts of this post, I realize that I'm still not in a good enough mood to write it. Perhaps after a little attitude adjustment, and after the welts go down (mine, courtesy of the Beans' teeth, mostly Parki's) and after a nap or two I can do something better but for now, this is all I got.

What's really irking me is that all these teeth are just going to fall out anyway and then we're going to have to pay for two orthodontic treatments, treatments that will no doubt be at times painful for the Beans and perhaps keep them (and therefore me) up at night, so in short, we're going to go through all of this again.

Stupid teeth.

Peek-A-Boo Beans

It sounds like our awesome economy is going to get worse (ouch) before it gets better. That's no fun, but hey, it's always nice to have another reason not to sleep at night besides paranoia. We're pretty familiar with the concept of "worse before it gets better" around here too. Take Monday, for example.

On Monday, as is the case many other days, the house was in shambles. I'd been out and about the three previous days and had seriously neglected pretty much everything other than the Biscuit's and Beans' immediate needs. In other words, laundry was done but in big, wrinkly mounds on the sofa, recliner and every other surface raised far enough from the floor to prevent it collecting enough dirt and dog hair to merit another wash. Food had been prepared but the dishes were "saved for later" (isn't that a cute way of putting it?) and the floors were, oddly enough, not terrible but in need of another visit from the Darling Dyson Dear.

Pretty bad, right? Sounds like it couldn't get any worse, right? Hahahahaha! If only that had been the case!

Hubby had had it. He was all done with the messiness. Every so often, when his wife (that's me) lets the messiness get the better of her and spends more time blogging than cleaning house, the creature who courted me rears his handsome, lunch-box-shaped head. This is the Bachelor Creature, the one who would hurriedly stuff everything somewhere and wipe down all visible areas with something that would make his place smell lemony-fresh so pre-married me would think, "Oh! He knows how to clean!!!". And that he does. He just really doesn't care for it-- kind of like someone else I kow.

Anyway, Hubby and I were both thinking that the place couldn't look much worse. Craps were everywhere but the worst offenders were everything in the kitchen and all the clothes covering each and every available seating surface in the living room. Hubby requested oh-so-nicely for me to please put away the Beans' clothes because that particular messiness was giving him the howling fantods. Knowing that howling fantods are no trifling matter, I respectfully set about fulfilling Hubby's very reasonable request but first, I wanted to explain how so many heaps of clothes arrive and overstay their welcome in the living room.

"I can't put them away while the Beans are up because the closet door has to be open. When the closet door's open, they yank everything out and scatter it all over the floor of their room, the hall... stuff gets everywhere," I began. "It would only take a couple of minutes if you kept an eye on them so I could just get it done," I suggested.

In retrospect, this must have been the point at which things went awry for me. You see, I think Hubby and I differ on our respective interpretations of the phrase "keep and eye on them". I think it means, "play with the Beans, sit with them and read to them, sing with them, keep them occupied and away from whatever it is I'm trying to accomplish at your request". I think Hubby thinks it means "I'll stand here on the other side of the gate until I have to pee or go outside and then they'll find where you are and proceed to make a bigger mess than the one you were originally trying to clean". I may be wrong. But I kind of doubt it.

So, guess what happened? Yep! I started hanging up all those Beanclothes and a couple of minutes later...

Parki delished on black patent Mary Janes but Pipsi had the hardest time choosing between a bathing suit and furry pants. Decisions, decisions! I'm proud of her though, because look at all she had to choose from:

...and that's all that would fit in the frame.

Don't worry, everything is now in its place but obviously we had a mess of epic proportions. When I hear about everything happening, economically speaking, I can't help but visualize the Beans playing in the closet with a few toys while the rest of the closet's guts are strewn about all over the floor. And I think about how every mess is manageable and after the exhausting cleanup life goes on about its business and we get to see things like...

The offspring of Cousin It and Chuck Barris, AND...

Said offspring following written instructions, AND

Nick Nolte's mugshot.

Nick Nolte-- now there's a mess I would never, EVER want to clean.

Cha Cha Cha

A few years ago, when Biscuit was about eight or nine, he and I went through a phase (one of many) during which we would follow each sentence with the phrase "cha cha cha". It went a little something like this:

"Biscuit, what do you want for dinner? Cha cha cha."

"Um, pizza? Cha cha cha."

"No, we already had pizza this week. Cha cha cha."

"But we love pizza. Cha cha cha."

"Yes, but too much pizza isn't good for you. Cha cha cha."

"OK, how about hamburgers? Cha cha cha."

Silly, right? Sometimes it would happen during coversations we were having very quickly and it sounded even sillier:

"Biscuit, get your shoes on! We have to leave right now or you're going to be late for school! Cha cha cha!"

"I'm tying them as fast as I can! Cha cha cha!"

"Well you need to tie them FAAAAASTER! Cha cha cha!"

You get the idea. It made no sense at all, neither one of us knew why we did it, but it was one of those things we did that's a funny memory now. As the Beans are growing and changing daily, they're beginning to do funny things that I hope we remember, though I'm sure we'll forget more than we keep stashed away in the files alongside the "cha cha cha" phase and the time Biscuit accidentally sprayed Uncle Poopypants square in the face with a mouthful of milk (in Biscuit's defense it was a complete accident on his part, and Uncle Poopypants acknowledged that he had pretty much brought it upon himself, though that didn't diminish the gross-out factor-- but, moving on...). Today each one of the Beans did something hilarious. Naturally, Hubby missed both of them but hey, at least now I know a blog can be good for something other than an alternative for therapy.

The Beans and I went to Target together today. It was just the three of us and I expeced the norm-- lots of oohs and ahs and "Oh, they're so cute!"s. That didn't really happen today. Why? Because Pipsi saw shoes and was not allowed to eat them. Woe was Pipsi! And she decided the whole store, nay, the whole universe should know how displeased she was with Mommy's coldhearted unwillingness to allow her to eat all the pretty shoes.

That was the quickest Target trip we've taken in the Beans' time here on Earth. It was also the loudest, with the greatest number of people looking at me with a mixture of pity, annoyance and revulsion. Yes, she's a tad upset! We'll be leaving now!

We arrived at the register and the clerk immediately dropped the bottle of Clorox I was intending to purchase smack on the floor. She picked it up and dumped it onto the counter, where it dribbled miserably all over the place.

"Ew! Um, this one's broken. I can sell you it but maybe you want another one?" The inflection in her voice made it sound like a question but the syntax was really better suited to a statement, however, since one of my Beans was still playing Wahmbulance and managing to squeeze out a couple of almost-real tears, I decided not to point out that sometimes a person can truly enjoy a mellifluous agreement between syntax and inflection and that the two, when used well in conjunction with one another can vastly improve one's communication skills. Instead I flipped the (jogging, fortunately) stroller around and spun off back into the Aisle of Cleaning Products to procure a new bottle of Clorox that wasn't in need of a diaper. Because I don't want to have to diaper anything else in my world. There is, after all, only so much I can take.

Pipsi was pleased by the quick-moving ride and offered everyone in the store a respite from her malcontent and I am forever grateful to Dan Dan the Trainer Man's Pilates class for the fact that I made it halfway across the store and back at a jog and arrived back at the register not even breathing hard. Huzzah!

But wait, what was this? Alas, the clerk was checking out another customer. My hurry had been in vain. Drat! Foiled again! Maybe I should have stuck around and offered the lecture. At least I would have enjoyed it.

"I'm just checking her through? She only had cards?"

Oh, God! I couldn't take much more of it!!!

"No problem," said I, standing laid-back and carefree at the foot of the register with my now-mellow Beans.

Lady With Cards was finished and the Beans and I returned to the batter's box after our first foul, ready to knock this one out of the park and get the hell home.

"Oh, um, this one doesn't have a tag? Do you remember how much it was?"

Finally! A real question! What?

"Oh, yes. That's nine ninety-nine."

The Asker looked at me dubiously and returned her gaze to the item in her hand, an item I could not simply forego because it was part of a gift and I had no idea when I'd again have time for another Target run.

"Well, I'll try to put it through but I don't know if it will?"

The knot in my back up near my left shoulder blade was getting really tense. I was hungry, the Beans were sleepy and The Asker was wearing on my very. Last. Nerve?

I bit my tongue very hard and ran the card through while The Asker watched her screen really hard, frowning with effort. After a second she heaved a big, dramatic sigh.

"Sorry, you need another one? With a tag?"

Happy to move away from The Asker's presence the Beans and I traipsed (did you know it's possible to traipse in a gigantic red jogging stroller? It is, just in case you ever need to do it) back to grab another one of the tagless items and in so doing, flew through the shoe section.

Oops.

Pipsi saw all the rows and rows of unattainable, pretty shoes again and remembered that she was pissed off at the whole entire world for keeping her from eating the beautiful shoes of nummy goodness. A couple of whimpers gave me false hope that she wouldn't crank all the way back up to full amperage, but no, we weren't getting out of that so easy. We sped through to the other department and took the longer way through the store back to The Asker (because at this point, she and I needed a little time apart) and along the way, every other human in Target got to think, "Wow, I'm SO glad that's not MY kid." Yes, yes, good for all of you. You'll have your turns! I was just happy not to have TWO screaming simultaneously. See? Always looking on the bright side!

We returned to The Asker and she quite ungraciously took up the tagged item, scanned it, plopped it in the sack, asked me the total, "Thirty-seven fifteen?", and once she took the receipt and dropped it in one of the bags, she simply turned around and walked away.

I couldn't have been happier. It was the perfect ending to our dysfunctional relationship.

I went to grab the bags but noticed the pungent scent of bleach and a wet spot on the counter and realized that The Asker had set the bags in a puddle of bleach. Lovely. I dropped the bags inside a couple of others (sorry, environment, but I can't bleach the Beans!) and we were off.

Pipsi was finally happy outside. She was happy getting into the Starship Margaret. She was happy while I loaded Parki, even holding hands with her while I stowed Big Red (the stroller's name is actually Willa, but she's kind of proud of the "Big Red" nickname) and we were finally off on our way home.

"Did you have a good time, Pippers? Sorry you didn't get to eat the shoes," I didn't have to console her any longer. She was a happy little Bean.

"Nayimyimyim. Yablekablugblugyuerg," Pipsi said to herself.

Pause.

Then she laughed.

"Yigayigayigayigurarararara,"

Pause.

Chuckle.

Pipsi laughed at her own joke.

And, as often happens, one Bean laughing gets the other Bean going, so pretty soon the back seat was full of giggles, punctuated by Parki barking like a dog and Pipsi joining in. It was pretty cute.

We stopped at Mimzi's to pick up the extra two gallons of milk that live in their garage fridge when space is at a premium in our own and got home, changed diapers, had a bottle and the Beans were down for Happy Nappy. Parki didn't sleep as long as Pipsi, so by the time dinner rolled around, Parki's patience was coming to an end. It wasn't all giggles, sadly.

The Beans eat "dinner" in their high chairs-- usually a couple jars of veggies, then they retire to the family room playard while Hubby, Biscuit and I try to distract the Beans with Baby Einstein long enough to eat our dinners (you know, food on plates). Hubby and Biscuit usually finish first because the Beans insist on consuming what they feel is a fair share of what's on my plate.

Tonight was no exception. I could see that Parki was getting full and sleepy because she was doing her usual I-thumb-my-nose-at-you-and-your-silly-food-Mommy thing when I offered her a bite and I knew I shouldn't have snuck that last one into her mouth. Pipsi was just graciously accepting my offering when Parki toddled over to my side of the playard, her eyes fixed on me, mouth working on something. This was not going to end well for me. I sighed.

Parki approached the end of the playard, brought her pretty, petite little hand up to her face as her tongue ejected the contents of her mouth into it and as she arrived at the wall, she threw a sticky, soupy handful of chicken and rice right at me, landing with a soft, splendid SPLAT! right across all five of my bare toes.

Then she looked up at me and let loose with a big, bawdy laugh, like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. Well, maybe it was.

It's days like today when I realize that the reason why I've probably forgotten more about Biscuit's little childhood than I remember is because I was probably a little crazy then, too. The Asker ordeal is funny now because in the hours since it happened I've happily forgotten how irritating those five minutes were and how agitated I felt when Pippers wouldn't stop screaming at the top of her lungs in a public place. It shows just how close I live to insanity's abyss. But it also gives me a little insight as to how I turned out (and continue to evolve) as the parent I am. A long time ago I read a paragraph in a parenting-advice article that one of the best things a parent can do is "keep it light", and during really stressful moments when nothing is going right and I'm perilously close to a poop catastrophe, public meltdown or temper tantrum, there's nothing like a good giggle to break the tension. Yes, there are moments when levity is entirely inappropriate, but there aren't many of those; the majority of time spent parenting is much more quotidian than anything else, but that doesn't mean it has to be boring or drive one insane.

Because if the Beans and Biscuit have taught me anything at all, it's that there's always something happening at any given moment that can make somebody laugh. If not, make something up. Cha cha cha.